


Nothing Lost

by junes_discotheque



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Crying, Gen, M/M, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:51:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After handing 24601 over, Javert reflects on the mayor he knew. (written for kinkmeme prompt: "Javert Crying". Can be read as slash or gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Lost

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=4782383#t4782383

After delivering the prisoner Valjean into the sturdy hands of the jailer—and then being summarily dismissed—Javert took the long road back to Montreuil-sur-Mer. He would have to pack up soon, he knew; though Valjean had fooled them all, Javert had been the one the mayor spoke with each day. And though he had seen, had sent a letter to that effect, he had been all too ready to let his convictions be dismissed and go crawling to M. Madeleine begging forgiveness.

Javert’s skin still crawled at the memory. How desperate had he been, how willing to let the man pass judgment! And yet he had not; Javert realizes this now, as he finally passes into the city proper and through the winding streets. Valjean could have had him dismissed, had him beaten, had him cast out and disgraced. And instead, he had let it pass. There had been no revenge.

Perhaps that would have broken his cover, Javert reasoned. Perhaps those nights when Javert was swaying on his feet from not being able to afford food and Valjean nearly dragged him around for supper had been just another means to keep up the illusion of the generous Monsieur le Maire. And allowing Javert to sleep by his fire, wrapped in the finest blankets, when the winter winds roared and Javert’s skin was pale and cold from his own meager linens—that must, again, have been nothing more than a tool of self-preservation.

So that Javert would never suspect.

He came to a stop and stabled Gymont, removing the horse’s tack himself before directing a stable-boy to clean and feed him. Then Javert continued on foot, down a steeply-sloping hill lined with tilted buildings. His apartment was at the end of the row, up a short flight of stairs, and inside was a small fireplace, a tiny desk and chair, and a bed. Above the desk were his cupboards, and Javert did not have to open them to know they were empty. There was coin in his pockets, a small reward for returning Valjean, but it was late and the shops would be closed.

Javert did not think he could bear to so much as touch the money.

He stripped his uniform off slowly, folding each item and placing it on the chair. It was cold in the room, and though he could have tried to stoke a fire, the logs he had purchased a month prior had burnt to ash and he had little else to use for kindling.

Once down to his underclothes, Javert slipped under the blankets and rested his head on his arms. It should have been warm; the blankets had been a birthday gift from M. Madeleine and were finer than anything he could ever hope to own.

He did not know why, but the thought brought tears prickling at his eyes. He scrubbed them away with the back of his hand, but still they fell, soaking the edge of the fine blankets and the worn mattress. Javert remembered when Madeleine had gifted them, a fortnight after his own birthday celebration. On that night, Javert had been ensuring only invited guests entered the house, and when Madeleine came out to persuade him inside for a plate of food and a round of dancing, he had refused.

It was then that Madeleine inquired as to the date of his own birth, and when Javert said he did not know—had never known—had never given it much thought or care, Madeleine had rested a sturdy hand on Javert’s shoulder and leaned in close.

 _”I’ll tell you a secret, Inspector,”_ he’d whispered. _”I don’t know mine, either. I merely picked this date, for some personal significance.”_

Javert had been astounded. And Madeleine had smiled and said that, if Javert accepted, he would pick a date for him as well. So it was that two weeks after the celebration, Madeleine had invited Javert to his home for supper and wine and had gifted him with the blankets.

Now, he pulled them closer to his chest and tried to quiet the hitching sobs that tore their way out of his throat, tried to will the tears to fall no more, but they did not obey. He tried to forget the kindness of that man, the softness of his voice and the strength of his hand, but it was no use.

It had all been a lie. Javert had always been alone, and he was alone once more, and it was all as it should be. Companionship had made him weak. It had made him blind to the truth. There was no M. Madeleine, there was only 24601, and all that had transpired in those years together had been a lie.

They had never truly been friends, and thus, Javert never truly loved him.

His chest still felt as though it had been cleaved in two.


End file.
